Of Hatred, and Other Things
by S. D. Vincent
Summary: A small exploration of a different side of Middle Earth (one that probably just doesn't exist). Murderousslashyweird. sigh


slashy, murderous interlude... ** of hatred, and other things**   
_note: quasi-slashy. if you don't like that stuff, then go away)_   
  
  
  
Azbar Talonanvil lay pondering in the grass just bordering the forest, at the edge of a vast field. _It isn't cold this night,_ he thought, gazing at the new stars that had just risen. In fact it was unseasonably warm for a winter's night--there was no breeze, and the air lay still and moist, smelling of pine and fresh dew.   
  
_If only there were more nights like this..._   
  
There were noises, and he lay perfectly still, his hands across his chest clutching his sword and holding his breath so that he would be imperceptible. It was his favorite thing to do; to hide in the woods just outside the major Elven hamlets and wait for an unsuspecting creature to stray too far from safety.   
  
He harbored such hatred for the Elves, for the old alliances were no longer recognized. His father had been killed by an Elf, too, on the first day of a glorious battle long ago. How petty battle is, Azbar mused again, fingering the steel blade. How petty are the minds of the creatures who decide to move into battle. Such useless fighting -- so many innocent sentenced to death.   
  
Visions of his father floated in front of him, phantoms from another time, another place. His death came as a harsh blow to the family; shortly afterwards, Azbar's mother had withered with the grief, and his only other brother was merely a few years old at the time, too young to remember such a thing.   
  
Yes, Azbar was nearly alone in the world, alone with a heart turned cold and lifeless with anguish and misery, with a mind full of vengeance. His fingers tightened around the handle of the blade, and as the noises returned, Azbar was back in the forest again, silent and teeming with energy. It had been only a week since his last Elven victim, but he yearned for more. His bloodlust was insatiable.   
  
Voices...voices echoing off the trunks of trees, and floating over the open air of the field. Azbar closed his eyes and smiled.   
  
They were close; he could feel them moving towards him, laughing in their jovial way. He wasn't sure how many there were, if they were she-elves or not, or if they were children. Not that it mattered much to him, though it made him swell with pride when he managed to bring down a male Elf; they were the quick-witted ones, the arrogant ones.   
  
Faint shadows passed by him in the light of the waxing moon; Azbar was silent. He had learned from past experience that a hunt could be messy if he did not exercise caution: Elves had excellent hearing, and could even sense when something amiss was about to happen. There had only been a few mistakes like that in the beginning--he had been careless, and was nearly caught.   
  
He made sure the Elves were past him, and slowly rose from his supine position. In the dim light, he could just make out two figures walking together--both relatively the same height, though one was fair and the other dark.   
  
Azbar stalked as silently as he could behind them for just a moment, before they could move out of range, but their sharp ears heard his footsteps before he had walked more than an arm's length. The fair one turned, and when he did Azbar sprinted, wielding the sword adeptly, taking off the creature's head. The body stood for a moment, shocked, before losing balance and crumbling to the ground.   
  
The darker Elf ran, feeling the danger and evil around the Man. Azbar learned from his previous experiences, continuing his sprint. He concentrated all of his will powering into catching the Elf, who was approaching the forest on the other side of the field quickly. If he reached the forest, then Azbar would have no hope of catching him; the forest was to him a strange place, even though he had lurked in the darkest thickets and underbrush for many months hunting.   
  
He was in arm's length, and as the forest loomed dark in front of him, Azbar lunged with all of his strength, his hand outstretched.   
  
He grasped hair. Smiling, he pulled and watched in ecstasy as the creature shrieked and tumbled to the ground. He looked at the dark locks still in his hand, which had torn free from the Elf's head. They hung limply in Azbar's hand, still warm.   
  
The creature writhed in pain on the ground, clutching his head. Blood ran down his neck, and one down his forehead in dark rivulets; Azbar stood over him, sword in hand, watching.   
  
The Elf was such a beautiful thing, Azbar found himself thinking. He knelt down, pinning the Elf with a knee and his free hand, staring into the eyes of the immortal. He struggled underneath Azbar, but only briefly; with a grace uncommon to such a Man and surprising agility, Azbar broke one of the Elf's arm, the two !cracks! of bone strangely satisfying. The Elf screamed in agony and pain, screaming something in its own language, tears forming at the edges of his eyes and flowing down his face.   
  
"Such deep eyes," Azbar murmured, watching as the black pupils expanded with fear and knowing. They were dark pools of knowledge that was hidden from Men; Azbar reeled with anger at this fact as well -- that Men should be so different from a being so alike in features and proportions. He traced the ridges of the Elf's jawline, watching as the creature cursed at him in his own language -- a lovely wash of syllables and Sindarin curses that were like ribbon and silk. Azbar smiled wider, and kneeled back, putting his sword aside on the grass.   
  
He did not like to see so much blood on such a wonderful thing, whose skin was clear and pure, whose features were above perfection. Azbar closed his hands around the Elf's throat, and squeezed.   
  
"For my Father," Azbar whispered, bringing his face nearer.   
  
The Elf's eyes bulged for a moment, and the expression on his face was almost comical as he struggled with the unbroken arm to pry Azbar's fingers from around his neck; but it was in vain. Azbar's grip tightened and though the Elf gasped for air, there was none to be found. Blood vessels in the Elf's eyes began to burst, giving the clear blue iris a blotchy red background.   
  
Hardly a minute had passed, and Azbar let go of the creature's neck, frowning at the purple bruises coming to the surface, staining the creature. His hands rested limply on the ground, and his eyes misted some, obscuring the burst blood vessels.   
  
Azbar looked at the creature a moment longer and knelt again over top of him. He passed his hand over the Elf's eyes, shutting them, and murmured the only Sindarin phrase he knew: one of peace and transcendence. Azbar gently kissed the mouth of the Elf--he could almost taste the creature, inhumanly bitter to his human tongue--and then stood once more, still with a crooked smile.   
  
His sword still had blood on it; Azbar wiped it on the grass and sheathed it before turning towards the field and striding over it, so he could lay down again and look at the stars.   
----   
[by Kath, 2003. ]   
[randomness. it came to me while i was driving home from virginia, trying to think of ways to channel my various sources of anger and frustration of certain people and situations. and since i've been on a... tolkien-binge lately, i thought i would incorporate that with my roots: my old, murderous side. haha. ] 


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